


pretty when you're mine

by freakedelic



Series: pretty [2]
Category: DCU (Comics), Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crying, Darkfic, Episode: s01e12-13 Apprentice Parts 1-2, Gotham Trash Party, M/M, Mentions of Previous Non-Canonical Character Death, Post Bad ending, Robin Suffers, Sequel, i had a lot of fun with this ayyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Robin knows Slade’s intentions from the second the man flips him down to the ground, given away by the glint in the man’s eyes, the hiss in his voice.





	pretty when you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from pretty when you cry by VOID. sequel to fic pretty when you cry which might clear some things up if you read it

            Slade takes him for the first time on the cold steel floor where his friends fell. Robin can smell it, thick on the air, burned flesh and corroded metal and organs torn asunder. It chokes in his throat as his face presses against the ground, eye forced half closed by the pressure, the taste of dirt and blood on his lips.

            He knows Slade’s intentions from the second the man flips him down to the ground for the second time, given away by the glint in the man’s eyes, the hiss in his voice. Robin’s limbs are splayed on the ground as the wind almost goes out of him. He gathers his arms together to throw off the oppressive force but Slade’s hand on the back of his neck stops him from moving as the man forces himself between Robin’s legs, and oh—

            _This is really happening_. Oh god, Slade’s going to—he’s going to—

            Tears trickle down his face. He bites his lips against their shame, drawing more blood, iron tang in his mouth and bleeding onto the floor. Rough hands brush his costume, easily finding the seams. Robin thrashes with the horrid desperation that comes from a horribly trapped animal, straining with his remaining strength. Slade’s hand abates, and for half a second Robin’s mind rejoices in the halt.

            Then fingers close around his throat. Robin’s struggling increases. _Restriction of blood flow to the brain can cause unconsciousness in seconds._ The factoid comes to his brain in Batman’s bland, factual tone as spots dance in front of his eyes, then Bruce is replaced by Slade’s smooth timbre.

            “It’ll hurt more if you struggle.”

            Darkness edges in on Robin’s vision as his throat aches from the pressure and his lungs burn him alive, the words as if from a long way away, under the water.

            Slade lets him go, finally, and Robin’s head collapses to the ground in a still-sick relief, arms so horribly tired and body protesting.

            Slade tears at his seams with a meticulous viciousness. The part connecting his pants to his top opens, the cool air and cold tile freezing the sweat underneath. Calloused hands trace skin and Robin can’t help but try to wiggle away to nowhere as the horror of it crawls up his spine. Hot tears of helplessness puddle on the floor, throat drying from his gasps.

            Fingers move down, brushing over his hips, hooking themselves in Robin’s waistband before pulling down in one smooth movement and exposing everything to the cool air and Slade’s roving, hungry gaze. Robin gags, no more food to come up in his mouth, tongue only burning with acid as fingers press down on his inner thighs, squeeze at his ass. His eyes burn.

            “Why—” he chokes out the question almost involuntarily, fingers clenching into meaningless fists as nails form crescents in the skin of his palms. “Why?” His voice is so constricted as to be nearly incoherent but Slade leans over, mask so close to Robin’s head he can feel it brushing against his hair. Slade’s fingers dig into his hipbone.

            “Because I _can_ ,” Slade says simply, satisfied. “And I want to.”

            It’s all the excuse Slade needs to violate him, because as far as Slade is concerned, Robin is nothing but his now. Rage flares in his chest— _how dare he._ Horrible, filthy, awful man that he is, how _dare he_. Robin thrusts his head back with all the force he can muster; even beyond the pain he feels as his skull collides is the loud crack of that awful mask that makes his heart sing.

The retaliation is as swift and brutal as Slade. Slade grabs his hair in a fist, raising his face even higher than before as he stares straight at the desiccated body of his friends and then slams Robin’s head down. This time, the crack is Robin’s nose as blood pools on the floor and smears his face. Pain erupts, meaningless. Slade’s hand presses his head down as his other roves back to its previous engagement.

            Robin shuts his eyes as tight as he can as the cold thought seeps fully into his mind, some childish instinct hoping it will provide him some measure of protection and safety. Fingers spread him wide and press at his entrance; he gasps in pain and surprise as a thumb slips in. Teeth grit against each other as he chokes on his own horror, violated again with a second stretching him too wide, pain flaring. Slade pulls them in and out, pleas falling unheard and ignored from Robin’s bloodied and bruised lips. The friction exacerbates the pain; even more so as a third finger is added.

            Robin cries aloud, blood leaking from his clenched fists. Slade doesn’t change his rhythm, even as the boy’s yells of pain echo off the cold metal in the room. He struggles, again, weaker this time, only managing to flare more pain as Slade bears down upon him with a horrific inevitability and weight. The fist curled on the back of his head shoves him down on his broken nose, throbbing pain overtaking the boy’s body.

            Slade pulls his fingers out, leaving Robin empty and relieved, but relief from is only ever followed by something much, much worse. He presses his face further into the floor when he hears the small sound of a zipper, and he chokes on his own blood and the futility of it all.

            “No—don’t, please—”

            Fingers curl in his hair. “Shut up, boy,” Slade tells him lazily. He stops fumbling with his pants and Robin closes his eyes so tightly he sees kaleidoscopic patterns on his eyelids, impossibly intricate and vast golds, swirling greens and purples against the cool air and awful place he’s in. It doesn’t help the awful pain as Slade enters him again, slowly and with a sort of leisure, contented air pressed through his lips. Robin chokes out a shriek, biting down hard on his tongue as Slade increases the pace without a care in the world.

            Robin desperately imagines Starfire, Koriand’r, Kori, laughing at him with a rising blush in a strange color, nervously twisting a finger in her hair with all the sincerity and intelligence in her heart evident in her gaze. Robin’s thought about her before, so many times, fumbling with his shirt as she laughs, him grinning back, pinned down by the strength of someone truly out of this world.

            _But not like this._ God _, not like this._

Now she’s gone, and the only thing that’s real is Slade, fingers bruising Robin’s hips and pulling him closer, grunts hissed out near his ears. Teeth and tongue rub against his neck, a beard pricking against his skin, some still against the fabric of the top part of his costume. He’s rocked by the brutal movements, left to Slade’s whims, horribly small and awfully weak. Everything hurts, muscles contracted, face spilling blood with every rough movement, something deep inside of him tearing at the viciousness. He tries to brace his fingers against the steel of the ground, fingers scrabbling for purchase as his nails break; inconsequential pain.

            There is no true escape, not even in Starfire’s forever-lost smile or the space behind his eyes, not from the cold floor and empty, sick room, not from Slade’s fingers and teeth and invasion. Slade’s concentrated grunting is hot on Robin’s neck and his body is unforgiving. Robin simply exists from one cry of pain to another and in the tears and blood that drip onto the floor. He finds a minute measure of ease as he gives himself over to Slade’s rhythm, focused only on the light behind his eyes.

            A loud hiss against spit-slicked shoulders precedes the thrusts quickening with enthusiasm as Robin grits his teeth around the metal of blood that slips between his lips and drips from his chin. His pained exclamations lower until he’s left with only choking cries, tears stinging his face and snot collecting on his nose. There is no way to bear this horror, no way he should be able to survive from second to second with the pain and the failure and Slade’s hands on him, but he still _exists_ despite it all. It surprises Robin that he’s still _there_ , stuck in his skin, when every sense and emotion tells him he is already dead.

            He is still alive when Slade snarls into a vicious bite on his shoulder, when the warmth deep inside him tells him the man has finished. They are suspended there for a slow second as the blood wells around Robin’s newest wound, before Slade pulls himself out and lets the boy go. Robin collapses as his muscles fail under him, the scent of sex suddenly too strong in the air, blood and semen welling from him. He blinks open sore eyes to see Slade towering above him, the slowly licked blood from his lips the only sign of the—

            —the _rape_ —

            Robin curls his fist against the floor in hopeless fury. There is nowhere to run, not in Slade’s stronghold, not from the man with white hair and an eyepatch, a face that is nothing like what he expected but simultaneously fits the monster before him perfectly. He tries to sit up, pulling the displaced clothing up to his hips with shaking fingers. His lips curl in a vicious snarl despite the indignity, throat sore from screaming, the defiance in him not extinguished. _Not even by this_.

             “Still fighting me.” Slade’s lips curl upward. “I expected nothing less.”

            “I’m going to _kill you_.” Robin’s voice cracks. He hears the words as if from a distance as they echo in the room.

            “I thought you didn’t do that, hmm? We’re making progress already.”

            “I _hate_ you.”

            Slade’s smile stays fixed in its awfulness. He crouches, still a too large figure. “You’ll learn to like it, boy.” He reaches a gloved hand out and Robin slaps it away with all his strength, teeth bared.

            “Don’t _touch_ me!”

            Slade laughs low. “Have it your way.” The fingers leave him, Slade standing and striding easily towards the door nearest. It slams shut behind him and clicks locked with a cold finality.

            Robin curls in on himself in the large room, ceiling towering over him. He is alone but for what is left of his friends and the aches that plague him still, crying tears he didn’t know he had left in him.

**Author's Note:**

> validate me w/comments uwu


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